


Return of the Prince

by To_Shiki



Category: Dracula Untold (2014), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Barduil Big Bang, I can't do battles sorry, M/M, The Master gets what he deserves, Vampire!Bard, unbeated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 10:24:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3847408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/To_Shiki/pseuds/To_Shiki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the Company awaken the dragon Bard and Thranduil shift from casual lovers to serious.  And as the years pass the elf notices that while his bargeman is aging his children are still as young as when they first met.  He won't tell him what the object is buried under his skin against his breastbone.  After the destruction of Laketown Bard must reveal himself to Thranduil and pray he will free him so that the oncoming battle will not result in the death of his loved ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return of the Prince

Return of the Prince  
10 Years before the desolation of Smaug

  
Bard lay on the ground, naked flesh protected from dewy grass and sharp twigs by his lover’s silken cloak. Closing his eyes he tilts his head back and gasps greedily for air. Sunlight filters down through swaying tree branches casting shadows across his bare skin as Thranduil leans back onto his haunches. Strong hands hold his bargeman’s knees on either side of his legs.

Both attempt to stifle their moans as the elf slowly withdraws from the warmth of his mortal lover. The elven king sucks in his lower lip, Bard presses knuckles to his mouth. Thranduil slides his hands slowly up quivering thighs. Not even bothering to hide a pleased smirk he shoves three fingers back into Bard’s ass and leaving them there, holding his seed within the willing body as the man squirms from the sensation. The other hand he braces against his cloak by heaving ribs to lean down and languidly lap up the cum cooling on Bard’s stomach.

Bard clenches fists into the fine fabric beneath him and just _breathes_. The fingers inside him teasingly caress against his prostrate while his lover’s tongue roughly drags across his skin. As soon as he’s clean the elf changes to sucking kisses all over his abdomen and chest. The sensation has him half hard faster than his mind can keep up with.

A particularly enthusiastic kiss on the scaring over the middle of his chest has him gasping in pain instead of pleasure. It rips both of them out of the pleasurable haze they’d fallen into.

Thranduil pulls back, withdrawing his fingers quickly. “What’s wrong? Why did that hurt you?” The concern he holds for the man showing through.

“Nothing,” Bard hastens to reassure. “Nothing’s wrong.” He quickly grabs Thranduil’s wrist and bring cum coated fingers into his mouth as means of distraction.

The sight of Bard sucking and licking his fingers had Thranduil wantonly rubbing against him. The excitement lasted for as long as it took him to completely clean off his hand, tongue laving up the palm to catch a trail dribbling towards his wrist.

Pulling away he carefully lays on top of the man so he can better inspect the scaring he would usually pass over without a second thought. Trapped beneath the weight Bard made an abortive attempt at bucking his hips. Whether to distract once more or to throw him off it made no difference. A twitch of interest from the dick pressing against this thigh but nothing more.

“I told you, Thran. It’s nothing. You just nearly broke the skin and it surprised me, that’s all.” Bard did his best to appear earnest but with the calculating gaze fixated on that particular scar informed him his words fell on deaf ears.

I wasn’t the first time Thranduil has laid eyes upon the scaring nor the first he’s lavished attention thoroughly. They each enjoyed spending hours relearning scars and dips on each other’s bodies when they spend too long apart.

“Of all your injuries this is the one you always fail to share its creation.” Gently he traces around the edge of raised skin. “Always glossing over or changing the subject.”

The bargeman shudders under the teasing touch. “It is… not something I enjoy remembering. “

“Not the result of some heroic battle, then? Or from having brought the wrath of the pitiful excuse of a Master to your door?”

The width of the circular wound could easily have been made by a thin spear or thick arrow. Edges smooth and just a hair smaller than two fingers across. The flesh within the ring of scaring muted red and uneven. Pressing down along the edge of unmarked skin had more give while the healed felt as if there was something lodged underneath it.

Something round and relatively thin, he decided, kneeling fully over the man and manipulating the tanned flesh with both hands.  
His tactile investigation was brought to a halt as Bard grabbed both of his wrists, pulling them up and away. A fine sheen of fresh sweat and harsh breathing alerting the elven king to the consequences of his actions.

Interlacing their fingers Bard brings them to rest on either side of his head. Forced to lean down Thranduil rests his head on his lover’s forehead.  
“Why are you so curious now, my lord?” he questions no louder than a whisper.

Their entire relationship, from wine drinker and supplier to casual lovers, had been built solely on idle curiosity and stress relief. The bond created when Bard’s lovely wife had passed was thought to only be a step closer to an actual friendship with the benefits of sharing a bed when the need for feeling alive grew too strong. Soon stories of their children - Thranduil’s Legolas and Bard’s Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda – entered the conversations shared between them and the woods. As they grew closer the truth about dragon fire and heavy crowns shared space with sickly children and punishments for doing right by the town folk.

Month by month touches linger longer than permitted for any casual lover. There would be elf sightings in Laketown, the children and curious adults attempting to follow the graceful figure as it traipses through their town. Two winters ago they had progressed to having the children meet each other. All four had shared looks before really interacting while their dads leaned against each other observing.

Both sets of children were infuriatingly ecstatic afterwards but refused to reveal why.

They can both see it, now, in Thranduil’s eyes and the way Bard bumps noses with the curious king. In the way the elf (painfully) tries to decipher the injury long since healed but not faded due to its magical origin. In the way Bard sighs.

“You truly wish to know? It is nothing pleasant.”

“The cause of such a grievous wound hardly is.” Thranduil pulls back slightly so that he may see his lover’s face while he explains. Adjusting his weight he settles down on Bard’s stomach lightly and nods for him to begin.

“Along time ago,” Thranduil snorts unkingly-like, “when I was maybe 30 or so a holy man and several of his companions came to my home. I had only been living there for a few months by that time. I had been… plagued by strange occurrences going on around our home and they villagers grew fearful of my family and me. So this holy man and ten armed companions came and I-“

The elf’s brow furrows at the abrupt stop. The haunted look in his mortal’s eyes worrying him more than the ominous words. The grip on his hands turn a shade painful as Bard shifts anxiously underneath him.

One breath. Thranduil opens his mouth to stop him but can’t bring himself to as he wishes to know. Two bre-

“I don’t remember very much of it after they force their way into my home. I know I was held down, my children screaming somewhere out of my line of sight. All I could see was this man’s face – haggard and crazed – hovering above me muttering to himself.

Then something fire-hot pressing against the middle of my chest. No matter how hard I struggled I could not stop it. It just kept going deeper and deeper into my chest and-“

He shut his eyes, hands releasing their hold on his lover to press against the thighs bracketing his torso in a desperate attempt to ground himself. Reds and oranges danced behind closed eyelids and the stench of burning flesh has him griping Thranduil’s legs tighter.

Thranduil in turn runs his fingers through sweat damp hair in support. Breathing harshly through his nose he lets the fury of his lover’s mistreatment and his children’s obvious fear shouldn’t only the eldest have been born that long ago? display clearly on his face.

Not bothering to open his eyes, to see the pity he thought would be there, Bard continues. “As soon as the object, a coin or some holy object I don’t know, hits bone my burns away to white. I can’t hear my children, my own breathing. All I can hear is the holy man’s mumbling and my heart pounding away.

Slow and quiet like at first. I had thought I was truly dead then. But after a while is gradually began to beat faster and louder until it I was sure it was going to burst right out of my chest. The muttering stopped and a sudden strike to my chest has everything going dark.”

Opening his eyes he catches the slew of emotions playing over the usually so detached elf’s face. The wounds on his face from the dragon in full view as if trying to share in his pain. He slides his hands up to rest on his lover’s hips.

“It felt like an eternity had passed before I awoke, my children gathered about me and a woman of Laketown standing over us asking what we were doing lazing about in our boat while there was work to be done. She was such a pleasant change from the last person who stood over me speaking that I nearly kissed her.

We were all so weak from the ordeal and she was so kind to provide us with a place to stay and real food to eat. We didn’t leave her home for the longest time. And then, before a year had passed, there was no need for us to go our separate ways.

In the spring she agreed to be my wife,” he finishes, melancholy in his tone.

_Children and then a wife from his town?_

Thranduil‘s confusion over this gives Bard the opening he needs to finally throw the elf onto the ground, half off the soaked cloak.

“Now that that’s out of the way I do believe it is my turn to hold you to my mercy. The time is passing too quickly for us to spend so much of it dwelling on pass misdeeds. The holy man and his followers are long since dead and the Master will be questioning if I tarry too long. He seems to be afraid that I’ll ruin his good name if I spend too much time in your presence.”

The elf allows his curiosity to be put aside for the moment, promising to get a more coherent story afterwards. More pleasant activities require his utmost attention and no one can lay claim that the King of Mirkwood is not a focused lover.

By the time they’ve caught their breaths the barrels are loaded and he watches as his mortal drifts away into the evening mists covering the water.

~*~

5 Years before the destruction of Laketown

On days when he can slip past his duties and his guards Thranduil makes it a habit to visit Bard and his little Bardlings as he’s taken to calling them. Tilda especially enjoys hearing him call them by that name. When he knows they’ll be out and about at the market he’ll use his glamour to change his appearance to see who discovers him first.

A young man, all skin and bones struggling to unload the newest supply of wine has Thranduil leaving his kingdom near dusk. Stuttering and bowing profusely, it’s been years since his wine deliverer has done such in earnest, reveals Bard brought down with fever.

Glaring at the poor boy Thranduil informs him, “You’ll take me to him and speak of this visit to no one.” Gathering his cloak about him he steps onto the boat and sits down, waiting.

“Speak-speak of w-wha-what, my lord?” the young man wisely answers. He steers them to the floating lights that is Laketown in silence.

Once at the docks the king turns and pays the boy a couple of gold coins to ensure his silence. Light on his feet and traveling shadow to shadow he makes his way through the silent town towards his bargeman’s home.

A single candle is lit deep within the home. Long past the formalities of knocking, Thranduil quietly enters and shuts the door before any nosy neighbors notice him. Readjusting to the dark interior takes but a moment and locating the bedridden man less.

On the nightstand the small candle burned surrounded by medicines from the local healer in fat squatty bottles. Crumpled handkerchiefs littered the floor along withthe discarded blanket. Keeping only a corner of the raggedy blanket on the bed was Bain’s leg as he curled up in the bed with his father along the right side of the bed. On the other side was Tilda, face mashed into her father’s shoulder. Laying between the wall and her sister was Sigrid, arm stretched out over her brother and gripping tight to her father’s nightshirt.

Exhaustion hung about the air in compliment to the unswept floors and filthy dishes with half eaten meals.

Sitting down on the small bed the elf carefully shifts so he can retrieve the blanket and cover the shivering man and his devoted children. He paused in tucking it around all four of them when he felt eyes upon him. Glancing up he expected to see the bargeman starting at him through fever-filled eyes.

Instead it was little Tilda, eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights filled with worry, marring her youthful features. Seeing it was merely their father’s elf king she closes her eyes and goes back to sleep, rubbing her nose against his shoulder in irritation.

Thranduil reaches over and calmly brushes her hair aside, getting a good look at the weary children in the faint lighting. Enjoying the attention she moves her head just enough for him to brush cool fingers over her own slightly warm forehead. No doubt the whole family will be ill before the bargeman’s fully recovered himself.  
Noting how little space she takes up compared to her siblings he freezes, fingers tangling in her hair slightly. It could have been a trick of the flickering candle light if it wasn’t for his sharp eyesight. And his equally sharp memory.

He lightly rubs his thumb on the baby soft skin beneath her closed eye. For nearly a decade now he and Bard have been seeing each other, half that of visiting Laketown and sitting down to family meals with him and his children.

Sigrid helping him remove his cloak and hanging it up by the door.

Bain showing him the new rope work he’s learned.

Tilda explaining how she had to stand on a stool to help her sister make tonight’s dinner.

Bard collecting more and more grey hairs each time they see each other.

Laughing it off and blaming his stubborn and feisty children.

His children still as young as when he first met them years ago.

He pulls away in shock. Looking to the eldest then middle child to see if it was true he had to bite back a startled gasp. He wasn’t as successful as he had hoped.

Three sets of eyes locked onto his startled face and merely stared at him. Sigrid released her grip on her da’s nightshirt and raised a finger to her lips, needlessly shushing the startled king. The three turned back to their father as one and closed their eyes, drawing strength from him even in his weakened state.  
Thranduil left without a parting word.

Within the week the bargeman was back on his feet, cheeks still rosy from the lingering fever. Each time they would reunite the elf would open his mouth, words of confusion demanding clarity, on his tongue. But each new wrinkle, each new grey hair had him putting it to better use instead of wasting what little time he had with his mortal.

~*~

The Night before Smaug’s attack

As soon as word reaches him about the dwarves escaping towards Laketown Thranduil makes haste to see his lover. Knowing the town folk they would be willing to follow Bard’s word over the Master’s if he arrived in time to warn them. If the dwarves reach their precious mountain tainted by that egotistical dragon it would cause more destruction than all their gold combined.

He thought of his mortal children, untouched by time, and hoped that this too wouldn’t affect them.

Their father, on the other hand…

Raised voices from inside has him sneaking his way in, hiding in one of the shadowed corners mostly out of line of sight to the meddlesome dwarves. Bard, frustrated from being ignored, stalks away towards the kitchen where he can faintly hear the elf hiding.

Bracing his hands against the skin and dropping his head, he softly questions, “What’re you doing here, Thran? They tell me you held them captive in your dungeons not too long ago.”

Keeping an eye on the bickering fools he answers, “I came here to warn you but it appears I am too late.”

“They wish to reclaim their mountain. Only 13 of them and they think they can kill a dragon and reclaim their kingdom. I’ve known dwarves to be foolish and more than a little stubborn but not to that degree!”

Thranduil nods in agreement. “They believe that they will have the upper hand. How they plan to actually kill that beast, I do not know. Should it awaken and leave the mountain you know that your town, your children, will be in grave danger.”

“I know.” Bard side-eyes the hidden king as he straightens. Turning to go back to the table full of his _guests_ he tacks on, “What can we do, but hope the Master will agree to their crazy demands, since the elves of Mirkwood have closed themselves off to us humans?”

Before Thranduil could explain his quarantine of Mirkwood Bard was too far away to stay inconspicuous.

~*~

The waters of Laketown are frighteningly cold and make every attempt to sink into his every bones. Forcing his arms and legs to move, he helps his son stagger ashore. Just as cold as his da, Bain wraps his arms around his torso in a weary effort to warm up.

All too soon his da’s preventing the town’s people from killing their slimy servant to conversing with the elven king’s son. Without evening bothering to change into dry clothes Bard has everything organized and the abled on the path to the ruins of Dale.

Once the children see the King of Mirkwood arrive with fresh supplies a spark of hope ignites within them. When they spy their da joining him in his tent, a hopeful look shot over his shoulder at them, they know what they must do next.

Dodging bedraggled folk and indifferent elven guards they make a mad dash for the smoking ruins of Laketown.  
It takes them the better part of the evening but they succeed in their quest.

Clinging desperately to the remains of his barge was the Master. Eyes clamped shut in misery, sniffling in fear, he was half frozen from the dropping temperature of the lake.

No matter. He could still serve his purpose.

Working together they roped him in, faking pity and compassion as they informed him of the town moving to Dale, of their da having council with the elf king come to aide them in their time of need.

Seeing an opportunity to take back control had the Master viciously struggling to get to the city of Dale as fast as his freezing legs would carry him. Sharing a malicious look the two elder children bore most of his weight knowing it would get them back to town faster than letting the wretched man go on his own.  
Behind them Tilda skipped happily, humming an old lullaby her sister had taught her.

Back in Dale, after meeting with the wizard, after trying and failing to reason with a mad king Bard felt he would collapse. He would have already succumb to illness already from being drenched in the lake. The object firmly resting against his breast bone granted him just enough strength to keep him going if he pushed hard enough.

The glimmer of hope came in the form of a weary Halfling bearing the Arkenstone. Dismissing Gandalf and sending Bilbo away with Alfrid, Bard briefly steps out to speak quietly with Thranduil’s guards. Once the nod in acknowledgement he pulls back closing the tent flaps to ensure as much privacy as possible.  
Still

facing the thick fabric he speaks to the king seated behind him. “You wanted to know the truth about the scar on my chest. Our relationship was too new, too raw,for me to tell you the reality behind it. Had I told you,” he turns making sure to stare the intrigued king dead in the eye. “Had I told you you would have claimed me mad. Maybe have left me. Maybe have taken my children in fear of their safety.

Although, had you done that you might have need to fear for your own safety.”

Thranduil sat, fingers tightening around the stem of his wine glass. His breathing increases as he feels the atmosphere within the tent grow dangerous. Darker. His heart pounded as his breath caught in his throat.

Bard slowly stalks towards him, chin tilted ever so slightly down, eyes locked onto the elven king through his lashes. “I will tell you, now. The proof of my tale lies within my chest should you be willing.

Long ago, long even before your kind first walked the earth, I was a prince. I was loved by all my subjects, by my wife, by my son. Sadly the king I paid homage to brought back a terrible practice: a thousand boys plus my son to train for his army.

After seeing the displeasure displayed by my people I denied him. I tried to reason with him. It did no good. So I went to Broke Tooth Mountain where an evil creature resided. He gave me power beyond my dreams. And I defeated the army at a great cost.

My wife, Merina.

My son, Ingeras, taken from me for his safety.

A life where only drinking blood could sate my thirst. Could sustain my life.

At the end of the battle I attempted to take my life and those of the ones I created in my image. I was saved, however, and nursed back to health. Once I felt in control of my actions I sought out my son and any of my subjects willing to travel with me for eternity.

I found one of the young nannies and her sister. Together the three of us rebuilt the castle and resumed rule over my people.  
Word reached the nearby monastery, a holy building if you were, and the head priest and his followers proceeded to “save” me by placing a blessed talisman into my chest while praying.”

Bard sat on the table beside the enraptured king. In the back of his mind he could hear his children coming ever closer, their giddiness stirring him on. With a jerk of his hands he rips the front of his shirt open enough to bare the wound. Taking the king’s hand he places it against his chest and leaves it there.

“When we finally awoke from the ordeal Dale had already fallen. This talisman that had you so curious it was makes me age. My children don’t feel its pull like I do as they are not in direct contact with it. They were the ones to make the lady who discover us take us in by mesmerizing her into claiming we were her children.”

“How? How can this be true?” Thranduil holds his hand over the mark. If the story held any merit it would make Bard and his children much older than all he holds holy.

“I do not know,” Bard admits, absently rubbing both hands over the one on his chest. “All I know is that one moment it was 1447 and the world turns to ash once the talisman is in my chest. Then we wake and it is like I said.

Maybe we had been asleep that entire time or some magic pulled us through time itself to land here.”

Bard adjusts his posture, leaning over the elf with one leg thrown over to land on the arm rest of his chair, trapping his lover and king between his legs. “That does not matter right now. We have time to go over all that at a later date. Right now, if you love me as much as I can feel you do, you will do this one thing for me.”

“And what is that?” Thranduil doesn’t bother denying the accusation. There’s a war waiting on the horizon. “What could I possibly do to assist you?” His free hand goes up to stroke one age wrinkled cheek.

Bard rests his head against Thranduil’s palm and sighs. “I need you to dig it out.” At Thranduil’s wide eyed astonishment he explains, “My children and I cannot touch it. No cursed hand may.”

“Why did you not have your wife remove it? How have you not had anyone else remove it then?”

“She could not fathom the thought of hurting me. And how would you have me go about convincing someone to dig into my chest and remove a magical disc? Mesmerizing them into believing we belong is much easier than forcing them to commit what’s viewed as a crime. Couldn’t even get the Master or one of his cronies to do it. I was too “useful”.”

“You have a point, bowman. Well then. I suppose this leaves me with no choice.”

The king goes to stand, not moving his hand away from Bard’s chest. Bard opens his mouth to plead again when suddenly lips are on his. Hungry, demanding lips forcing him to focus entirely on the elven king doing his best to lay him out on the table.

Dimly he could feel Thranduil rubbing at the scar. More importantly was the sensation of him rubbing his growing arousal against Bard’s. Pressed flat on the table the bowman tangle his hands in the long silky strands curtaining their hunger for each other from the rest of the world.

Just when breathing was going to become vital he gave a warning tug to a handful of hair.

Either Thranduil misunderstood and thought he was pulling him closer. Or purposely ignored it. So he tugged again.

Harder.

The smirk he felt as the elf redoubles the effort of establishing complete dominance of their kiss enlightens him as to which was correct. In desperation he started kicking out his legs, the only part of him truly free to move, in a pathetic attempt to dislodge the suddenly amorous king.

The lack of oxygen had him sagging back onto the hard surface beneath him. How the elf was still going strong, he did not know. Legs stopped kicking, one ankle hooking limply around one strong thigh. Fingers firmly snarled in blond strands loosened but did not fall to his sides like he expected as stars exploded behind his closed eyes. The tension bunched in his shoulders bleed away as the flashes of light grow brighter and brighter.

Just as they are about to take over his vision _pain_ lances through his nerves, limbs seizing, back arching. His weak scream swallowed by the elf above him. Long thin fingers dig into his chest. Panic has him fearing the cold creature is about to remove his heart.

An eternity passes in electric agony and dull resignation until he feels those fingers curl around his heart and tug.

Red replaces white behind closed eyes. Flying open they focus on nothing, everything too close for his vision to take in. Blurs of pale skin and white hair splattered in red pull away abruptly. Air is desperately sucked in, past the burning pain in his chest.

Another tug. Blood pounds in his ears loudly, an enticing rhythm calling out to him. Teasing him as his throat dries up.

Vision sharpens. Every perfect eyelash of his elf visible. The way the individual strand of his hair falling over his shoulder as he stays leaning over him so captivating he can’t help but follow down his arm to his hand covered in blood.

He couldn’t resist. Surging up Bard throws the both of them to the floor, lapping at the blood staining his lover’s hand.

And just as quickly spitting it out in disgust.

Kneeling over the startled elf he gags in horror at tasting his own blood.

“So it is true.”

Bard looks at Thranduil as the elf brings his bloodied hand between them, slowly opening his fist. Resting in the palm was a little silver medallion covered in a thin layer of wax, ruins engraved onto its surface. Not bothering to move or clean up the elf takes it into both hands, wiping away the blood to examine the thing that caused his mortal (immortal?) lover such suffering.

Thumbnail scrapes away some of the wax coating. Scraping away more he squints at the writing in a futile hope it would help him understand the words. He flips it over to repeat the process on the other side and suddenly finds himself alone on the floor.

Rising up to his elbows, nail absently scratching away at the coating, he quickly looks around the tent. There crouching in the far corner is his bowman, face turned away and fists clenched. Before he could utter a word Bard spoke.

“Silver is one of the few weaknesses I and my children have to worry about.”

“Then consider it gone,” Thranduil states blandly, as if it was a thing of mere annoyance and not a death sentence. He closes his fingers around it once more, effectively hiding it and its effects for now.

“You’re taking this remarkably well, my lord.” Bard risks a glance at the elf’s face and once again finds he can’t look away now that the silver no longer has hold on him. The way the candle light flickers across his flawless features. The shadows cast by splatters of blood, _his blood_ , on his cheeks and robes.

The tantalizing beat of his heart. The world shifting out of focus as his eyes adjust to seeing the heat he gives off, watching the blood pulsing through his veins to his  
lovely

beating

hear-

“My lords,” a loud voice breaks through the hold Thranduil’s blood holds on the newly awakened vampire. “I know you wished not to be disturbed but the Bowman’s children are here with Laketown’s Master.” A pause. The guard continues a breath later, voice airy, “But they insist on being allowed in.”

After a glance to Bard, tunic torn and covered in blood, who nods his acceptance he calls out, “Let them in.”

A jumble of bodies push their way through the opening, flap falling back into place. Little Tilda stays by the entrance holding the flap firmly in place while her brother and sister drag a babbling Master to the middle of the tent. All of the frown at seeing the gaping wounds marring their sire’s chest.

“Do not worry, my darlings. It will heal and you’ll never even know it had been there.” Stepping forward to stand in front of the trio he gazed down at the sniveling man before him. Not taking his eyes off him he asked his children, “Now what do we have here?”

“We brought him for you, father,” Bain said.

“We knew –had hoped- King Thranduil would save you from the curse, and knew you would be thirsty,” Sigrid added.

“You should have asked him sooner!” Tilda piped up, earning giggles from the other two.

“And how did you know to make your entrance now?”

“We could feel the hunger returning, sire.”

“What is going ON here?” demanded the Master, knees aching from being held in place by two disproportionally strong children. “My Lord Thranduil, I don’t know what trickery they’re using but I assure you I’ll have the lot punished!”

“You will do no such thing, mortal.” Turning to address Bard he asks, “And what will you do with him?”

“As I said,” Bard crouches down to stare the Master in the eyes. He can feel his eyes glowing red as he telepathically orders him still. Bain and Sigrid step release the man’s arms and step back a respectful distance. “Only blood will quench my thirst.” He places a gentle hand under the man’s chin and tilts his head to the side. “You may wish to leave, my lord. This will not be pleasant to witness.”

Thranduil steps to the side. Instead of heading towards the entrance where the youngest awaits with the flap held back for him he moves towards the chair upturned during their little struggle as he removed the talisman. He straightens it, brushes off imaginary dirt and drags it over towards Bard. Positioning it just right so that he has the perfect side view of the four of them he regally sits, legs crossed and arms thrown over the cushioned arm rests.

When Bard raises an eyebrow at him, a smile slowly forming, he raises one back. Imperially waving his hand, blood flaking off and coating the underside of his nails,

“Well? Go on.”

Faster than even Thranduil could keep up Bard had his teeth sunk into the tender flesh of the Master’s neck. Tendons in his neck bulged as he struggled not to put too quickly, to drink more than he could handle after so long. Strong fingers dug into the Master’s scalp and shoulder as the man weakly attempted to move away from the pain.

After surviving so long by forcing scraps of food down his stomach could only take so much. Drinking only half of what he would usually consume he pushes the weakened man away from him in disgust. Not out from his actions, he had long ago accepted what he had become, but because his returning sense of smell had him nearly retching all the precious blood up from the human’s stench.

Not even a dunk in the icy waters could remove the Master’s inherent odor.

Staggering to his feet he makes his way the handful of steps to Thranduil when the elf motions him over. As soon as he’s within reaching distance he’s pulled down to settle on Thranduil’s lap, curling in around his full belly. Hiding his astonishment at what he’d witnessed the king merely cradles the future king to him, one hand rubbing soothing circles on Bard’s distended stomach.

Bard places a loving kiss against one collarbone in thanks. Without even looking away he says, “You may finish him off.” He waves his children towards the mortal weakly trying to crawl backwards towards the entrance.

Towards Tilda.

The children allow him to edge his way towards her. The two elder shuffle behind him, eyes glowing and fangs exposed in hunger. Tilda tied the opening securely shut and put her hands behind her back innocently as the man came ever closer.

The Master gasped when his back hit something solid. Something that wasn’t tent material. Eyes still on the two demonic children he reaches back and grasps at the obstacle denying him his escape. A giggle above him as his fingers travel up the thin pole like object. Slowly looking up he stares right into the softly glowing eyes of the youngest. His hand tightens around her leg in fear as her laughter reveals teeth sharp as the ones her siblings bare.

Sharp as the ones her father used to bit into him.

Opening his mouth to scream the children pounce on him – Bain to the unmarred side of his throat, Sigrid to his right wrist, and Tilda to the left.

Beside them Thranduil watches in awe as they quickly drain him of what little blood he had left. The creature on his lap nuzzled against his throat, placing content little kisses every so often. Moving his hand from Bard’s stomach to his thigh Thranduil shifted the man’s weight as he felt it cutting off the circulation to his legs.

Once the children were done they left the man barely breathing on the floor. They quickly wipe their messy mouths off with their sleeves before kneeling in front of their sire and the elf king. They bow their heads and wait.

Taking their lead Thranduil pulls up a corner of his robe and gently cleans Bard’s mouth. As soon as he’s clean the elf nudges his face towards his children. “We still have a battle to win tomorrow, don’t we?” the elf prompts when Bard refuses to leave the content state he entered after settling in on his lap.

With a sigh, Bard opens his eyes and nods. “The dwarves need to learn to stick to their word. I will try again to reason with them.”

“We will,” Thranduil states.

“We will try reasoning with them,” Bard agrees. With effort he removes himself from his lover’s lap and stands wobbling as fresh blood rushes throughout his neglected body. “Tomorrow.” He makes his way past the crumpled body, hands lovingly brushing over the faces of his children. A flick of the wrist has the closure on the tent ripped off and a sigh of disapproval escaping the elf behind him. He’s out into the world before Thranduil thinks to get up and stop him.

His shirt is still torn, framing the open wound he had created.

He quickly follows his human king outside, stained robes flowing behind him. The children follow, Tilda playfully trying to catch the fluttering fabric.  
Outside stood a semi-circle around the king’s tent of apprehensive elves and humans. First there was the muffled crash as something fell the ground. The guards were no help as they forcefully prevented anyone from entering. Then the children had arrived with someone in tow. The dragonslayer’s children had made no secret of their dragging the half dried Master into the elf’s tent.

Now here is their future king calmly walking out of the tent covered in his own blood acting like nothing was amiss. He sweeps his gaze over them, a frown on his face as he fails to find what he’s looking for.

“Where’s Alfrid?”

“I am here, master!” a familiarly annoying voice calls from the back of the crowd. “Out of my way, you mangy peasants!”

Startled gasps marked the sniveling man’s journey towards the front of the crowd. It wasn’t until he was directly in the dragonslayer’s presence kneeling before him that the exhalations of irritation to surprise.

As soon as his knees hit the debris covered ground thick dust shot into the air, momentarily obstructing him from view. It floated around him lazily spinning around him. One of the men stepped forward, hand outstretched towards the swirling particles. The hand was quickly pulled back when the swirling stopped.  
Everyone took a few fearful steps back when the dust settled and revealed someone who couldn’t possibly be Alfrid.

A tattered white shirt, a wide fabric belt wrapped around his waist several times keeping up a pair of dark pants replaced the drab black robes he had worn just moments ago. Pale skin had grown darker, could have almost been considered a healthy tan if the sickly hue wasn’t still visible. Dingy hair had grown longer, clinging together in thick twisted cords nearly to his waist. Even as he curled over in respect to the bowman it was easy to see he’d grown taller as well.  
His voice, when he spoke not daring to look up, deeper with an underlining tone bordering on insanity to it.

“What do you wish of me?”

Bard calmly reaches down and pulls the groveling man to his feet, placing a friendly arm around the transformed man’s shoulders. “Go to Girion’s old home. You do remember where that is?”

Alfrid nodded eagerly, hands twisting together in anticipation. “Of course, master. I have gone there many times for you.”

“Go to the family vault and retrieve my armor and sword I had you stash for me all those years ago. Polish them up and bring them to me. Quickly now!” He claps him on the back before gently shoving him in the right direction.

Elves and humans alike parted hastily for the taller, leaner version of Alfrid as he scampered off. All heads turned back to Bard as he stood there, a barely there smirk on his face. Mouths flapped open and shut like landed fish in attempts to speak. Thranduil loosely grabs Bard’s arm and comes around to face him.

“What. Just. Happened?”

Despite his bland tone the elf looked just the slightest bit impressed. One thick eyebrow raised in impatience when Bard continued to stand there silent.  
“That was Igor, my manservant from our time before. He has faithfully served me, saved me even when I had thought to give up too soon.” He pulls away, addressing the crowd, “He is under my protection and no harm is to come of him. Am I understood?”

Voices quickly rose in protest. Asking how he could forget how that fiend had treated them all, the bowman included.

Bard merely stood there, soaking in all the voices. Taking a deep breath he tilts his head back, arms out, bathing in the weak moonlight filtering down. He stays like that until the voices stop. Until nothing can be heard but their rapidly beating hearts.

Bathed in the pale light they all watched as the blood caking his chest flaked off, disappearing into the wind. The old scar from the talisman healing over to leave his chest undamaged. Worry lines and the bas under his eyes smoothed out. Taking notice of all eyes on him he decided to show off even more. Rubbing his hands on his face for dramatic effect he then pushes them up and through his oily hair. As soon as his fingers touch the strand they turn from greying black back to their healthy shine. Gathering it all at the base of his neck in one hand he gives it a jerk, pulling off the excess length he’d acquired over the years in Laketown and lets the strands float away. He shakes his head, allowing his hair to fall to just above his shoulders.

He goes so far as to rub his hands vigorously over his face. A final stroke and all of his facial hair are gone, smooth skin giving him a more youthful appearance. He turns to Thranduil with chin jutted out to show off his new appearance. When the elf shows the slightest bit of apprehension over his lack of stubble he quickly focuses on regrowing it to its former glory.

Thuds resounded through the gathering as the people dropped in groups to their knees in awe. This man – this creature – is the heir to the Girion name and throne of Dale. A creature who could heal himself and change his appearance would be leading them into battle in the morning. A potential monster who if he lived through the battle would become their king.

Bard takes a few moments to take in the emotions washing over him from the town’s folk. There were those who were disgusted with what they saw. Disgusted with the fact that Alfrid, that Igor, would stand by his side. He knew that there would be those who wouldn’t trust him now that the seal was gone. Who’s to say that he won’t let the darkness in him shine through and become a worse king than the Master ever was?

But they are few and cowardly. He sighs in pleasure at the hope rolling off the vast majority of his fellow Laketowners. Hope and something else… Something almost akin to pleasure at having him as their king. How would he rule, this strange version of their bargeman? Would he have the dwarves honor their promise now so that they may rebuild their fine Dale?

Before he can address the gathering again Bain clears his throat loudly. Locking eyes with the elven guards he commands, “There is something in the King’s tent that needs to be removed before it taints the very fabrics with its stench.”

The guards nervously look to their king for guidance. A child ordering them around would have them scoff and brush them away. Thranduil nods his agreement and they move with haste into the tent to remove the dying Master.

Bard tries again to speak only this time it is not one of his children to interrupt but the wizard himself.

Gandalf has his staff held to Bard’s throat in a very threatening manner. This close to it the vampire can feel the power crawling over his skin as the wizard prepares to attack if need be. Eyes narrow at him suspiciously.

“I know what you are,” he says just loud enough to reach the people in the front of the crowd. “Your kind are rare, not even a handful left, and hidden away from the sun. It weakens you and burns your flesh away to nothing but ash should you be caught in it. How have you survived so long in its presence before tonight?”

“There was a seal placed on my breastbone not long after I came to be this way. Over the decades of being able to walk in the sun’s light maybe it will enable me to walk about in the day light once more.”

“This man who stands before you is known as an _upir_ , a creature of darkness who feeds on the blood of its victims. A dangerous lot gone almost extinct by the end of the First Age. For good reason,” he adds dangerously. “It was better for you to be sealed away as you were before so that you pose no threat to any of us.” He looks to the elven king.

Thranduil for his part looks down at his clenched fist. He smirks at the wizard and releases his hold on the talisman.

Nothing. Just bits of wax and a few flakes of dried blood.

“I seem to have _accidentally_ dropped it into the fire.” They all turn to look at the small fire burning by the elf’s tent. There lying in the heart of the burning wood was a half melted splotch of silver. The ruins on it smoothed over and its magic destroyed.

Bard smiles kindly at Thranduil in thanks for his quick thinking. He turns his attention back to Gandalf. “We are called vampires where we hale from, Gandalf the Grey. And you forgot something.” Within the blink of an eye Bard’s body shifts into hundreds of tiny bats, shrieking and circling away from the wizard. Before the people had a chance to start panicking beyond springing to their feet he collects himself. Standing right behind the Halfling he places his hands on tense shoulders saying, “We can shape shift and have the strength of a hundred men or more.”

Finally able to address his people he turns to them. “What he says is true: the _upir_ as they are called here, vampires as what we’ve learned to call them, are creatures of the dark. We need to drink blood to survive and the sun’s rays can kill us if exposed for too long. My children and I, through the magic of the talisman implanted into my flesh so long ago, are now able to walk in the sunlight without killing us. The magic that allowed us to walk in the sun still lingers while our hunger returns.  
Before we came to this land I was a prince, not unlike what I would be considered now had I truly been related to Lord Girion. I was loved by my people, by my family. When our enemy came to our door demanding 1,000 young boys to strengthen their armies I willing sought out the power to destroy them from ever taking them from us or any other kingdom. It was fear of the unknown that prompted my subjects to contain my powers so long ago.

I can promise you this right here, right now, that should you allow us to stay I will be just as great a king as you deserve. My son, Bain, will eventually take my place when the desire to step down strikes me. Whether we talk the dwarves into giving us the gold they promised or we go to war to claim it we will rebuild Dale to the glory it once was. Life as you’ve known for so long will be nothing but a memory to tell your grandchildren.

Now that we are free of the talisman’s restrictions we will be able to win this battle that Gandalf has warned us about, the orcs traveling this way for the mountain, will as few casualties as possible.”

Hilda, one of the inhabitants with the most influence, slowly comes forward. Bard gently nudges Bilbo, who had remained quite this entire time, to the side so that she may approach him. She stops barely a foot away from him, giving him a good once over before meeting him eye to eye. They both stand there, he exuding clam and strength while she weighs what she sees in his eyes. He allows his eyes to glow for just a moment.  
She doesn’t back down.

With a huff she nods and turns back to their audience waiting with bated breathe. “I ask you this: which is a worse master? The one we had before claiming to be a man or this one here who tells us what he is?” She looks back at him briefly. “I say we win this foolish squabble and then see if his words hold true!”  
A cheer slowly erupts from the people. Thranduil and their children stand by his side as they go from cheering to graciously bowing before him. To the side Gandalf joined Bilbo as they watch on with unease.

To the east the sun rose, heralding a new day. The new people of Dale, exhausted from having their lives upheaved so many times in such a short period, squinted and turned away to start preparation for their parts in the oncoming battle.

Bard and his children merely relaxed and let the light wash over them, relishing in the sensation of the warm soaking into their bodies without a hint of discomfort.

~*~

Trading the Arkenstone for the promised treasure along with the jewels of Mirkwood, unsurprisingly, failed. The hobbit had a good plan but none of them, aside from maybe the elves, had realized how deeply the dragon sickness had its claws in the King Under the Mountain. Not even having Bilbo explain what had happened and why he did it helped shake the dwarf.

The arrival of Dain and his army only made matters worse, Thorin retreating to the sanctity of his mountain as the sickness continued to eat away at him. The remaining company watched from their barricade as their kin and the elves turned to face the orcs coming at them weapons raised.

Beside Thranduil, Bard and his children observe nonplussed as the enemy grew ever closer to them. They watched as dwarves of the Iron Hills engaged them in battle.

They watched as Thranduil and his warriors in turn entered the fray.

During preparations a scant few hours before the elven king and the wizard had informed them of the sickness infecting the dwarf king. They knew that time, and maybe even the dwarf’s own kin, would be the only cure.

So they bid their time.

The dwarves are strong and stubborn.

The elves are cunning and fast.

The humans. As much as it rankled on their nerves and very honor Bard had them barricade themselves in the main hall. The men at the front, weapons in hand. Women right behind their husbands and fellow survivors with their makeshift weapons at the ready. All the young and feeble at the back of the hall waiting to see if they’d live another day.

On the battlefield Bard waits. The dwarves and elves fight on. Swords glinting in the light as arrows fly overhead. When one arrow lands dangerously close to Sigrid’s horse she looks at her sire expectantly. He nods to her and her siblings. Enough time has passed.

Now it was his turn to uphold his promise. Eyesight sharper than an elf’s picks out more than a dozen dead allies. More than he had wanted.

“You know, sire,” Tilda speaks up from his right. “We fight better in the darkness.” Her voice, still so bright and innocent spurs him on.

Blood pumping through his veins in excitement at fighting a true battle once more, Bard gives a short bark of laughter. “We do, don’t we, my child?” Gripping the hilt of his sword tightly he concentrates his powers outward.

They all dismount as he calls the weather around them to shift. Near cloudless skies suddenly darken, thunder rumbling in the distance and lightning crackles through the air. The change is so sudden the battle abruptly comes to a standstill. Elves and dwarves and creatures of Sauron gaze to the east, watching the oncoming storm. A dull splotch of red pulls their eyes downward to witness Bard and his children slowly stalking towards them. Flash of white as the elder unsheathes his sword.

Azog on top of Ravenhill is the first to break from the stupor. He yells, ordering his army to turn towards Dale and its people. Before he has a chance to give another order he is surrounded by screeching bats, tiny wings batting at his face. Blinded he struggles to swat them away. His minions suffer a similar fate as more and more bats fly up to their landing, distracting them as the signals and horns are destroyed.

Battle once more underway, Bard signals his children into position. Bain and Tilda take on the creatures approaching the city while Sigrid assists the dwarves. Bard moves to his place beside Thranduil and his elves. Using speed and strength granted to them by their sire blades are halted from delivering the killing blow to their allies. Blades sing through the air as limbs and heads are severed from the bodies of orcs and goblins. Blood platters across their clothing and noses wrinkle childishly in disgust at the stench.

They can feel their sire as he mentally counts down when to finally end the battle on the part of them and their allies. The orc general is still upon his outlook struggling to free himself of the supernatural bats biting away at him. His minions have already succumb to their assault and fallen to their deaths on the rocks below.

A jolt goes right through them, causing them to suck in a sharp breath of air.

It’s time.

In the heat of battle the air shifts, drawing the vampires’ attention back to the mountain. They can’t hear what’s being said on top of the barricade but the emotions flowing down tells them that it’s time to settle this.

The bats around Azog listen as their master gives the order. Tiny sharp claws dig into pale flesh and clamp on. They take to the air, the orc’s struggles a mere annoyance as they get closer and closer to the mountain. Arrows and spears soar up in their direction, never actually landing a blow in fear of hitting their leader. The scare tactic fails and they deliver their package to the front door of Erebor unhindered.

By their master’s command they slam the creature against the barricade hard enough to stun before releasing him. As the dwarves make their way down with haste the bats disperse, flicking their claws with disgust as they try to ride themselves of the orc’s taint.

Thorin spares a glance at the bats swarming around him and his kin. Still shaking the dragon sickness from his mind he watches as Azog attempts to run towards him only to be pushed back by the tiny creatures. It isn’t until he holds his sword firmly in hand, posed to strike, that they back off behind the rest of the Company in a protective ring should the orc endeavor to flee.

The duel would have dragged on for too long had Azog not been foolish enough to try and drag Kili and Fili into it as well. He had made the mistake in thinking that the sickness would slow the king down allowing him to kill his heirs.

A call sounded throughout the area. Gradually the fighting stopped as section by section turn to look upon the mountain. There on top of the barricade stood Thorin, nephews on either side, all staring on victoriously. The horn sounded again as the King Under the Mountain raises his right hand to reveal the orc general’s severed head.

The enemy stared on in disbelief. Taking advantage of the distraction elves and dwarves dispatched of the remaining orcs with ease. Bard and his children fliting in and out of sight as they take down the bigger creatures still trying to reach Dale.

By the time the sun reaches the horizon no creature of darkness is left alive save for the vampires. A handful of dwarves and elves lay dead on the ground surrounded by their felled enemies. The battle could have ended with so many more casualties had he not tried to talk Thranduil into freeing him. As the few scratches littering his body from lucky shots healed he thanked his wife for the ability to win this war and return to his people.

~*~

A few nights after the Battle

Before the talisman had been removed Bard would have thrown his head back, gasping in overwhelming delight. Now, though. Now he buries his face into the crook of Thranduil’s shoulder as the elf works another oil slicked finger into him.

A wonderfully rough thrust has him nibbling teasingly on the pale neck. Not hard enough to break skin. Just enough pressure to leave indents for an hour or two. A bit more pressure in protest when the fingers pulled out, leaving him aching for their return.

When nothing happened for several breaths he reluctantly releases the light hold he has on his lover with fangs and hands. Just as he’s about to rest a hand on Thranduil’s chest and ask what’s wrong his world gets turned upside down.

Suddenly he’s got a mouthful of fancy embroidered silk and an insistent weight on his hips and lower back. Two sword callused hands grasps his wrists and pin them down by his shoulders. Turning his head to the side he’s met with one side obscured by the robe, each tiny detail visible to his enhanced eyesight, and the silvery blond locks of his elf.

They both know now that he could easily shift forms or throw the other immortal off if he really wished. But he didn’t.

The weight on his wrists grew as the figure above him shifted. Hot puffs of air ghosts past his ear as the elf whispers huskily, “It would be in your best interest to keep your fangs to yourself, my dark prince.” He punctuates his warning with a grinding thrust against Bard’s ass, his dick catching on the loosened ring of muscle.

“And how-how will you convince me to do so, my lord?” Desperately he lifts his hips up and back in hopes of enticing Thranduil to enter him fully. When all the elf did was entwine their legs and lift up his hips Bard quickly drops his own to the ground to try and get any sort of friction on his straining member trapped between his stomach and the silky robe.

The weight returns suddenly, stilling his frantic motions. Chuckling by his ear as he feels something hard and pulsing resting between his ass cheeks. Leisurely Thranduil thrusts his leaking cock along the cleft of Bard’s ass, enjoying himself as the vampire tenses his muscles in an attempt to urge him on. Precome slicks the way making it easier for him despite how hard Bard tries to squeeze. He makes sure to catch the tip on his hole as sweet torture for them both.

“I could keep this up all night. Reduce such an amazing creature like yourself to whimpers and tears,” Thranduil whispers sweetly into Bard’s ear. “Bring you close again and again for marking my beautiful neck.” His tongue darts out to lick along the prominent vein in his archer’s neck.

At the embarrassingly needy whine he receives he knows just what to do.

“But also, we have several very important meetings to attend now that you’re King of Dale.” And with that he lines up his aching cock and shoves his way in just as he bites down, hard as he dares, onto that wet patch of skin.

He groans in pleasure as Bard’s wet heat surrounds him perfectly. Bard actually keens long and loud and the head of his cock slams into his prostate multiple times in quick succession. With wrists still trapped he captures loose locks of silver and clenches his fists tight.

They each hold the other trapped as Thranduil gradually speeds up. He keeps the thrusts shallow and sharp to ensure his lover has no wiggle room with which to rub himself off on.

As he draws closer to completion he drags Bard’s arm down, hissing against inflamed skin when it pulls on his scalp, and presses Bard’s hand under to align with his cock. Taking the hint the bowman releases the hair and grasps his straining member and tries to jerk off. Quickly the elf’s arm goes rigid to prevent the action. He bites again at Bard’s neck in warning.

He’s in charge here.

The vampire goes full body limp, allowing his lover the control he desires.

Now that he has everything in hand, so to speak, he leads them both to completion. As he spills into Bard he quickens their strokes to bring him to climax, ruining yet another robe of his. Thankfully the weavers of Dale enjoy the profit made from his many orders for new robes every month.

Collapsing onto the ground Bard nudges at the elf laying on his back. Taking the hint the elven king rolls over, pulling his lover with him and out of the wet patch of cloth. They lay there relaxing as their bodies cool down. Thranduil’s breathing slowing back down to normal while Bard breathes simply out of habit to match his. He smiles when he feels another habit make itself known. A matching smile from Thranduil against his shoulder when the elf realizes he’s been caught.

But he just can’t help rubbing his thumb over the spot on his chest. The sweaty smooth skin a pleasant reminder that now they have an eternity together.

*~*~*


End file.
